Watch Your Back

by Sherilyn Decter

  So many new houses.

  They drive past the tennis courts, nets packed away for the season, the pavilion abandoned. I remember playing here. The sun so hot, and all those petticoats. And a corset. I was what? Fifteen? I could barely breathe when I served.

  She pulls onto Drexel Road and parks in front of her parents’ home.

  Ten years.

  “You grew up here?” Tommy is craning to see the large shingle-style house. The stone exterior of the first floor seeming to rise out of the earth, the massive, shingled roof wrapping down to embrace the house. The veranda stretching across the front. The porch swing where she and Jack had courted in the dark while her mother and father were sleeping. The round turret with the witch’s hat roof. Three fireplace chimneys with ornate brick detailing growing out of the gable-shaped roof. Home.

  The trees are bigger than I remember.

  Maggie walks around the car and puts her arm around Tommy who is gazing at the house. “Ready, Tommy?”

  He looks at her and nods, and together they go up the walkway.

  Where is the girl that ran down this walk? Ribbons in her hair. Into Jack’s arms. Father standing at the top of the stairs on the veranda, fist raised, shouting. Mother weeping.

  They climb the front steps, past the stone urns, and stand in front of the French-paned front door. Suddenly, before she can knock, or ring the bell, the door is opened by a middle-aged woman in a uniform.

  “Good morning. You must be Mrs. Barnes? And Tommy, is it? Please come in. I’m Agnes. Let me take your hat and coats and I’ll just go fetch Mr. and Mrs. Gifford.”

  Waiting in the dark foyer, Maggie’s overlaying what is here now with her memories of what was. The dark oak paneling, the large square piano on the Oriental rug, the chandelier, the staircase with its twists and turns and landings. The ornate, stained glass window of roses. Fresh flowers on the piano, but otherwise the same room. Frozen in time.

  “Wow, Mother. This is a mansion,” Tommy, standing close to her, whispers.

  “It’s a very big house,” she says, giving him an encouraging hug.

  “Margaret.” Her father’s voice booms from the drawing room that is to the right of the expanse of the front hall.

  “No, Howard. It’s Maggie. I’ve told you that before. Please try and remember, dear. And Tommy’s here, too.” Her mother’s voice, coming in the other direction from the kitchen. Both parents arrive in the front hall at the same time.

  “Tommy. This is your grandfather.” Maggie gives him a gentle push. Tommy steps forward, all eyes on him, his hand extended. “Good morning, sir.”

  Howard Gifford solemnly accepts the hand and shakes. “Welcome, Tommy. We, your grandmother and I, are delighted you could come for a visit today.” He takes his eyes away from Tommy and smiles at Maggie. Are those tears? Is my father crying?

  Maggie glances at her mother, who is definitely crying. Oh goodness, I’ll be crying next. She clears her throat, and Cordelia Gifford steps forward, putting her arm around Tommy.

  “Come on, you two. Let’s go sit in the library. Agnes has laid a fire, and there are cookies waiting for you, Tommy.”

  The library, much like the front hall, is exactly as Maggie remembers: lined with filled bookshelves—a reader’s library, not just for show; large, leather, wingback chairs; polished dark wood furniture; heavy crown moldings; the oak mantelpiece above a crackling fire that’s taking the chill off the late fall air.

  “And the drive? You managed all right?” Father is peering out the window, looking at the Pontiac parked at the curb. “It’s a sharp looking car. Just a coupe? Is that big enough?”

  “It ran beautifully. And two doors are fine for us. Right, Tommy?”

  Tommy nods; his mouth is filled with cookie. Cordelia settles in a chair to one side of the fireplace. Howard moves from the window to what is obviously his chair—a stack of books on the table beside it. “Please. Sit,” Howard says.

  Maggie and Tommy sit facing. The talk is busy and pleasant. Maggie’s nervousness is replaced with pride over Tommy—the son she’s raising singlehandedly.

  Talk of school and books has Howard and Tommy up and browsing his bookshelves, pulling one after another off to examine before re-shelving. Cordelia comes over and sits close to Maggie on the couch. She takes her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you so much for coming, Maggie. It means the world to him.” Her voice is quiet so as not to be overheard.

  “Of course, Mother. How is he?”

  “A good day today. Because of your visit.” Mother and daughter chat about inconsequential things, careful to keep to safe topics.

  “I’m going to show Tommy the house, Cordelia,” Howard says, leading Tommy thorough the library.

  “All right. Agnes will have lunch ready shortly, so don’t be too long.”

  Moving away from the mothers, Howard and Tommy cross the front hall, disappearing into the other side of the house.

  Lunch is polite and stilted. The conversation is sprinkled with ‘remember whens’ and ‘where are they now’ questions about friends and events from Maggie’s childhood. Little Margaret Barnes. At the pony show. On the tennis court. At school. Her coming-out party. Tommy’s natural exuberance comes out and carries them along. Maggie is pleased and relieved to see him so comfortable at the table, his company manners on full display. She’s proud of him.

  After lunch, Cordelia takes Tommy off to hunt down the photo albums, introducing him to a much younger version of his mother, and the rest of the extended family.

  Maggie can hear them murmuring in the drawing room while she and her father sit by the fire in the library.

  “A fine boy, Maggie. You’ve done a wonderful job.”

  “He’s his father’s son. There’s a lot of Jack in him.” There. Jack’s in the room. Finally. After all these years.

  Maggie stares across the library, unable to meet her father’s eyes. He too is fascinated by a corner of the bookcase. It holds his full attention.

  Maggie clenches her hands, and then relaxes them. “Father. Tommy and I are glad we came today to see you.” There. I did it, Inspector. I said I’m sorry. Or might as well have. That’s as good as it gets, at least for now.

  She looks at her father, sitting there, a blue tinge around his eyes. His skin is a bit paler than she remembers from her visit earlier in the week. The expectant silence lengthens, becomes awkward. Her father clears his throat.

  Here it comes. After ten hostile years.

  “Maggie. I’d like you to consider joining my firm. I was impressed with your presentation of Millie’s hat store issue. It was succinct and touched all the bases. Gifford Accounting Services could use a person with your skills, and I’d like you to become involved. To have a place there. It would provide a secure future for both you and Tommy.”

  Maggie, expecting to hear something else, tries to absorb the words. “To be part of your firm?”

  “Yes. You can retain your current clients. We’ll arrange for more. I can pass along some of my clients. Having you onboard would give me time to grow the firm.”

  “What about that young man at the front desk? What is his name?”

  “You mean Ron? Ronald McNeely. He’s my clerk. Nice fellow. Has some training, but just starting out. His long term plans are up in the air at the moment. I’m sure he could clerk for us both for as long as he’s at the firm. I don’t keep him very busy.”

  “I’m overwhelmed, Father. And appreciate the offer. Let me think on it. You don’t need an answer right away, do you?”

  “No, of course not. Take as much time as you need. Why don’t I get Ron to drop off some documents. A draft partnership agreement? For you to look over. Nothing binding. Just a draft. If it doesn’t suit we can amend it.”

  “Of course. I’ll look it over.”

  Tommy bursts into the room holding a photo album. “Mother, look. This is a picture of you on a pony. Can I have a pony?”

  “Here. Let me see. Oh, my goodness,
look at that hair.” Maggie and Tommy look through the book together. In the front hall, the grandfather clock announces the hour.

  Maggie looks from the album to her father and mother, sitting there with smiles. Tired smiles. Time to go.

  Chapter 35

  I n a bootlegger’s world, Saturdays are peak days, full of deliveries, shipments, payments, and a bit of carousing after the work is done. Sundays are not quite a day of rest—not quite a day of work either. Often the fellows roll into the warehouse a bit later in the day, either recovering from the night before, or having spent time with family, or attending church. Sunday’s are a day to catch up, to get ready for the week ahead.

  In the warehouse, some of Mickey’s crew are organizing shipments for Monday. There’s inventory to count, because sometimes it goes flying in and out so fast it’s easy to lose track. They’re expecting a shipment of beer from Reading on Tuesday. It will come in on the spur rail that runs parallel to the warehouse. Space needs to be cleared for the crates.

  Alfred, the mechanic, always enjoys Sundays. Keeping the whiskey-sixes in good running order is a week-long task. On Sunday he gets to tinker on some of his own projects. He personally owns a bumblebee yellow Packard Series 533, a massive car, with thick, nickel-plated radiator shells, and large drum headlights.

  Alfred’s 1928 Packard has all of the mechanical updates the 1925s offered, only with the kinks worked out: a 3.5-inch bore; bigger bearing surfaces in the engine; connecting rods drilled to allow lubrication to the wrist pins; steel disc wheels; and Bendix three-shoe internal brakes on all corners. It also includes a new hypoid differential, a high-turbulence cylinder head, improved carburetion and manifolds, and an 81-hp rating. Alfred’s pride and joy, it’s a sweet ride that set him back five large, which was a significant investment with Fords selling for less than four hundred bucks. Alfred’s Sundays are a dream for him—on his back and under his car.

  This Sunday, Henry is also under the car with him. The two of them are mucking about with tie rods and ball joints as they install a Bijur lubrication system that will eventually grease thirty-two chassis points at the push of a knob on the dash. Alfred had decided he couldn’t live without the modification, and invited Henry to give him a hand. It’s a two man job and, in the old days, he would have asked Mickey to lend a hand. Mickey had worked as a mechanic before building his bootlegging empire and knows his way around a wrench; but these days, Henry is the better partner, and the pair are enjoying themselves immensely.

  At the long table in the middle of the room, Gus and Fingers are cleaning their weapons. Oil, rags, and brushes are spread out between them. Eddie is sprawled in Mickey’s chair at the head of the table, not completely recovered from late night revelry—the crew have conferred, and complained privately, that he’s no John Bricker. There’s a half full bottle in front of him and he’s bragging about the night’s conquests.

  Fingers and Gus share a glance across the table. They don’t believe half the stuff that rolls outta Eddie’s mouth. The latest unsavory story involves Mickey, a couple of dames, and a swing.

  When Henry and Alfred are finished, they stand proudly beside the Packard, wiping their greasy hands on a rag; the satisfaction of a job well done shared with a friend. Eddie’s braying laughter intrudes on their companionship.

  “What a moron he is,” Alfred says quietly to Henry. “Always shooting his mouth off about something. I can’t figure why Mickey spends so much time with the putz.”

  Henry starts walking over to the table, catching the tail end of the story.

  “Mickey’s such a dope. I can’t believe a guy like him managed to pull together this sweet set-up.” Eddie waves his hands around, taking in the warehouse and the men working in it. Most are avoiding looking at him. “Thick as a bag of hammers and a real whack-job, coo-coo, nuts,” Eddie says, twirling his finger beside his ear. “Maybe he was something back in the day, but he’s past it, now. Somebody’s going to take him out.” Eddie pantomimes shooting. “And maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, eh? Provide a little stability around here? Focus on making some dough—“

  Henry has come up behind Eddie and grabs him in a headlock, lifting him out of his chair. Eddie, feet scuffing the floor, struggles to break the hold of Henry’s arm. Henry leans down and whispers in Eddie’s ear, “Nobody speaks like that about Mickey Duffy.” He tightens his arms. “You give him respect.” Eddie’s face is beginning to turn red.

  Gus and Fingers watch carefully, but not interfering. Eddie’s had this coming for a while, and Henry’s just the guy to deal with it.

  “Mickey is the boss, see. Always has been and always will be.” Another squeeze. Eddie’s eyes are bugging out, his face now purple.

  A couple of the guys who had been wrestling crates and barrels begin to drift over to see what the fuss is. There’s no love lost between them and Eddie Regan, either. You can’t trust him in a fight, he doesn’t pull his own weight, and he’s basically a loud-mouthed slacker.

  “I am so sick of you, Regan. I don’t know where the hell you came from but, if I were you, I’d consider heading back there.” Henry gives a final squeeze and releases Eddie, who collapses, coughing and gasping, onto his knees. Henry gives him a look of disgust, and straightens his tie.

  He glances at Gus and Fingers who are watching Eddie begin to wretch. Their lips curl.

  “I gotta get going, fellas. When the inventory count is done, just leave it on top of the crates on the clipboard. I’ll find it in the morning and we can start restocking the speaks and clubs. See ya around, boys,” he says, nodding to the men who are standing around the table watching the spectacle. He turns and pushes a kneeling Eddie face down in the dirt with his foot. “Eddie.” Henry strolls out of the warehouse, whistling.

  Gus catches Fingers’ eye and they grin at each other.

  Chapter 36

  T he fall days pass in a blaze of color. Tommy’s spent the week chattering excitedly about the visit with his grandfather to anyone who would listen. He’s looking forward to telling Jimmy all about the trip over a couple of chocolate malted milkshakes at Walgreen’s. But Jimmy says work before play, and then they can go.

  Tommy waits in the front part of Chalkie’s barbershop. The red leather chairs sit empty and dusty. They’re not often called upon for a haircut. A large man in a pin-striped suit is sitting on an armchair lined up across from the mirrors, his fedora hat pushed back, looking over the horse racing forms. The receptionist.

  “Hey, kid” were the only words spoken when he and Jimmy had come in earlier so that Jimmy could drop off his bag and clock. Tommy sits waiting, looking at the covers of out of date magazines while Jimmy is in the back. It’s Saturday so, with the exception of homework that could always be looked after on a Sunday night, there are minimal expectations of him beyond being home in time for supper. He still isn’t up to resuming his paper route, although he soon will be. Walking Jimmy’s runner-route is good therapy.

  Jimmy has been in the back for a while. Tommy is getting restless. Maybe next time he’ll bring one of the books his grandfather has lent him. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea looks interesting. There is a giant squid on the cover. A book with a giant squid should be good. The bell tinkles, and the big guy sitting next to him stands up.

  “Hi, Mickey.”

  Mickey, closely followed by Eddie, comes into the barbershop.

  “Hey, Porter, how’s it going? Busy day?”

  “Steady.”

  Porter’s heard about what happened at the warehouse last week and flicks a cold glance toward Eddie.

  “Well hello, Tom. I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Need a haircut?” Mickey’s grin invites a response.

  Tommy slides off the chair and gives Mickey a shy smile. “Nah, Jimmy’s just back there and I’m waiting for him.”

  “You got plans?”

  “We’re going for malts.”

  “Oh. Those are tasty. Say, I hear your ma got a car. Have you had it out for a sp
in yet?”

  “We drove out to see my grandparents last weekend.”

  “No, I mean have YOU had a chance to take it out for a spin?”

  “Drive it? By myself? No. Mother would never allow that.”

  “If you don’t have any other plans, how about I take you for a driving lesson? Got time right now?”

  “I’m supposed to be waiting for Jimmy.”

  “Eddie, check with Chalkie about what Jimmy’s up to. I think he may have another run to do right away. Saturdays are always busy.”

  Jimmy comes out a few minutes later, an empty bag clutched in his hand. “Hiya Mr. Duffy, sir.”